


The Mask and What Lies Beneath

by leaper182



Category: Jeeves & Wooster
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, It only counts as a fail because Jeeves is so awesome, M/M, Pre-Slash, Secret Identity, Secret Identity Fail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:35:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21845287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leaper182/pseuds/leaper182
Summary: Reginald Jeeves has been in the employ of one Bertram Wooster for the past three years.Then he discovers that even Bertie can wear the mask.
Relationships: Reginald Jeeves/Bertram "Bertie" Wooster
Comments: 18
Kudos: 104
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	The Mask and What Lies Beneath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aderam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aderam/gifts).



> Holy poop, a massive and hugest thank you goes out to Beatrice_Otter, who not only has an adorable username, but gave honest beta when I really needed it.
> 
> I loved the prompt and hope you enjoy!

There were very few occasions when Mister Wooster lost his ready smile. Typically, it was due to some slight mishap that had landed him, as he liked to call it, 'squarely in the soup'. But since there were no pending engagements to unsuitable ladies, and there were no friends ringing at all hours of the day, demanding an audience with either of them, Jeeves was somewhat at a loss as to why Mister Wooster was so solemn.

The simplest course of action was merely to ask, but given how quickly Mister Wooster would hide whatever he was perusing, like a child attempting to hide a stolen biscuit, other methods would need to be utilized.

A thorough search of Mister Wooster's things when he was out for the evening at the Drones Club yielded nothing. There was nothing left in his pockets, no papers out of place, no misshelved books that might have yielded a new hiding place for any correspondence.

Mister Wooster had another dinner engagement at the Drones Club that evening. At least, that was what he had informed Jeeves.

The telephone call from Saint Bartholomew's Hospital just after 11:30PM said otherwise.

Jeeves made his way to Mister Wooster's bedside soon after his arrival, having been escorted by an orderly when he announced his intention to take his employer home to recover from his ordeal in peace.

The telephone call had said that there had been some urgency, but it was with no small amount of relief that Mister Wooster was discovered to have suffered scratches and bruises, some torn clothing, and the beginnings of a black eye. He was sitting on a bed, gingerly testing a split lower lip with a finger and hissing before he saw that he wasn't alone, distinctly favoring his left side.

"Jeeves!" Mister Wooster's eyes were artfully wide. "I say, what are you doing here? It's the middle of the night!"

"I received a telephone call that you were receiving medical treatment, sir." Jeeves raised an eyebrow an exact eighth of an inch.

Mister Wooster's mouth dropped open in expression that some would describe as 'gormless', even as his eyes tightened on Jeeves's. He recovered quickly enough with a wave of a bandaged hand to the rest of his person, looking the worse for wear. "It is as you see, Jeeves. Really, it wasn't so bally awful that they needed to rouse you from the forty winks."

"The nurse on the telephone said that you would need an--"

"Ah, here we are," a brusque voice announced before an overweight constable entered the room. "We are looking for the gentleman who was attacked earlier this evening."

Jeeves raised his eyebrow again at Mister Wooster.

"What ho!" Mister Wooster raised a bandaged hand. "I'm Bertram Wooster, but there wasn't any--"

The constable, approximately six inches shorter than Jeeves himself, had a florid complexion under his helmet, dark eyes, and a brownish blond mustache. He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a pad of paper and a pen. "I am Constable Cartwright, and I'm here to take your statement of the attack."

"I say, really!" Mister Wooster protested. "There was no _attack._ It was just a--a misunderstanding!" Blue eyes threw a pleading glance his way.

Jeeves's eyes, in turn, promised assistance in return for an explanation. "My apologies, sir," he said with an apologetic cough to draw the constable's attention to himself. "Mister Wooster has most likely been imbibing for a good deal part of the evening."

Mister Wooster caught on immediately. "Oh, yes! Tight as an owl, me!"

The constable didn't look convinced. "Be that as it may, Mister…?"

"Jeeves, sir. I'm Mister Wooster's valet."

"Mister Jeeves." The constable dutifully wrote in his notebook. "Be that as it may, sir, he was brought to the hospital by a good Samaritan who stopped an attack in progress. We would like to get Mister Wooster's side of things so that we may better apprehend the culprit."

Over the three years he had been in Mister Wooster's employ, Jeeves had come to know Bertram Wooster's every expression. The majority of them splashed carelessly across his entire face, his heart worn on his sleeve for the world to see. Even in Mister Wooster's melancholy moments--fewer and further between than most employers that Jeeves had served, especially in recent years--there was a softness that displayed his wounds openly when any ordinary man would have learned as a boy to hide them behind a stiff upper lip.

Now, Mister Wooster wore a focused, calculating look that was considering and discarding ideas as quickly as a casino employee might shuffle a deck of playing cards. For a moment, Jeeves wondered if his employer was aware of how...naked his thought process was at present.

Mister Wooster's eyes flicked over to his, fully cognizant of Jeeves's attention.

And then he blinked and he was back to a strained smile and politely distant look in his eyes. "I say, Constable, there's really no need for that. If you tell me the chap's name who rallied round to save this Wooster, I'll only be too happy to thank him myself."

The constable looked surprised by the request, but reached into a pocket and removed a pad of paper from it. Flipping back a page, he cleared his throat. "The man who stopped the attack was one Mister Robert Johnson, of East Dulwich. He said he happened to be walking by when he heard a shout of alarm and found you being grabbed by the front by an unknown gentleman, sir."

"Well, well!" Mister Wooster said, a small note of pleasure in his surprised tone. Jeeves thought, perhaps, that Mister Wooster was reconsidering his stance on cooperating with the police regarding the matter. "That all sounds a bit rummy, what?"

Jeeves cleared his throat apologetically, catching the attention of both gentlemen. "If you'll pardon me, sir, but if you were to describe the man you encountered, perhaps Constable Cartwright might be able to ascertain that it was, indeed, an unfortunate misunderstanding."

Mister Wooster's eyes narrowed again before an idea occurred to him. "Well, all right, Jeeves," he said, sounding like he was humoring his manservant as he drew himself up again, even while Jeeves could detect a note of contrite acknowledgement.

"The man I encountered was about so high--" He held a hand to approximate shoulder-height on his frame. "With a mop of brown hair that he keeps short. He also had pale skin and dark eyes." He frowned, as though he were inebriated and trying to recall further details. "Oh, but one of his eyebrows had a small bit of scar through it." He touched his left eyebrow, bisecting it with a fingertip. "He looked like he might be rather around my age, or a bit younger. I can't remember what he was wearing-- I think he asked me for the time before things get a bit fuzzy." He sighed and flashed apologetic blue eyes on the constable. "Dreadfully sorry, old chap. Wish I could be of more assistance."

While Mister Wooster had been recounting his attacker's description, the constable jotted down quick notes on a pad of paper produced from his jacket pocket. He lifted his attention to Mister Wooster when he finished with something akin to an avuncular eye and a nod of approval. "Is there anything else that you can remember, Mister Wooster? Anything at all?"

Mister Wooster made another show of thinking, and then winced and touched his head gently.

"I apologize, Constable," Jeeves cut in smoothly, recognizing a cue when he saw one, "but I believe Mister Wooster has been through a terrible ordeal this evening, and I really must take him home."

The constable eyed Jeeves for a moment before turning back to Mister Wooster, the light of sympathy shining in his eyes. "Sorry about that. If he remembers anymore details…?"

Jeeves nodded. "I will ensure that you're notified immediately, Constable."

The constable nodded.

Mister Wooster's eyes flashed, and he offered a careful smile, owing to his lower lip. "Oh, but you couldn't give me an update or two if you find out anything on your end, could you, Constable?"

Constable Cartwright drew himself up. "I'm afraid I won't be able to discuss an ongoing investigation, sir." One look at Mister Wooster's blue eyes, however, seemed to have the desired effect. "But I might be able to let you know if we find out anything more. All unofficially, of course."

"Oh, of course!" Mister Wooster replied. "Thank you, Constable. I'm sorry to have put you out on a night like this."

The constable was almost smiling. "Think nothing of it, sir. Have a good rest of your evening, and I wish you a speedy recovery." With that, he exited the room, closing the door behind him.

Jeeves took a moment to listen for the constable's footsteps before turning back to Mister Wooster.

"Right ho, Jeeves!" Mister Wooster's smile began to broaden before he hissed and prodded his lower lip with a finger. "Well, that's that out of the way. Shall we head home, as you suggested? I'm sure my coat is around here somewhere."

For a moment, the calculating look was back in Mister Wooster's eyes, but it was gone again, as though it were a trick of the light.

Whatever explanation Mister Wooster was going to give him, it would not be here, it seemed.

"Very good, sir." Jeeves raised an eyebrow a significant eighth of an inch, and found the article of clothing on a nearby table. He unfolded it, tsked over the damage that had been sustained to one of the sleeves and both lapels, and held it open.

Mister Wooster offered his back, shoving his arms into the sleeves, and then adjusting the garment until it felt more or less on his shoulders. "Ready, Jeeves?"

"Am I to believe that your hat and walking stick were not retrieved from the scene of the...incident, sir?"

"Indeed so, Jeeves." Mister Wooster smiled, patting his coat pockets until he found a slightly battered pack of cigarettes. He stuck one between his lips, and leaned forward to light it from the match that Jeeves had produced from his own jacket. "Come, let us away!" 

***

It was with a decided non-spring in his step that one B. W. Wooster entered his flat, with his gentleman's personal gentleman trailing behind, rather like a magistrate ready to pass sentence. Bertie had spent the majority of the trip pondering what the dickens to tell Jeeves as an explanation for what had _really_ happened to him, but anytime he thought of some little white lie, it sounded just as implausible as the last. Now that he was faced with his valet removing his coat and eyeing his state of dishabille with a disapproving eye to rival fire-breathing aunts, Bertie's host of hare-brained stories had jolly well abandoned him at the starting gun.

"I say, Jeeves," Bertie said, not having to fake the wince he made as he pulled at his ribs where he'd been punched. It had been a glancing blow, or else Bertie wouldn't have been able to make good his escape from hospital, but he still had to move gingerly to avoid angering half of his chest in the process. "You wouldn't mind if I just toddled off to the dreamless, would you? It's been a long evening, and I…"

He turned to find Jeeves watching him, those dark blue eyes taking him in and not giving an inch. 

"Ah, well." Bertie licked his lips. "Yes, I did say that I would explain, didn't I." It was phrased like a question, but Bertie knew he sounded like a condemned man being led to the gallows.

Jeeves's eyebrows rose in a practiced arch. "Explain, sir?"

"Oh, come now, Jeeves," Bertie chided, losing a bit of patience and giving his man a flat look. Or at least a disapproving one. "We spoke without words, you and I, while we were facing down that Constable Whatsit."

"Cartwright, sir," Jeeves corrected smoothly. "And I would not like to make assumptions, especially given some of the wordless communication in question."

Bertie couldn't have missed that remark if it had been jolly well in front of him and biffed him one right on the nose. He delayed answering long enough to find a cigarette, light it from one of Jeeves's ever-ready matches, and breathed in a pensive gasper.

"Perhaps you would care for some brandy, sir?" Jeeves offered. The man's eyes watched him steadily.

Bertie had been about to refuse, but the night was pretty much done for. It was nearing two o'clock, and he was too on edge to even think about bathing and taking his allotted forty winks. "Be generous with the b. in the b. and s., Jeeves. This night is pretty much done for anyway."

Jeeves gave one of his momentary pauses as he chewed on a reaction he didn't expect from the young master, and then nodded. "Yes, sir."

Bertie watched him cross the room and start assembling. Instead of sitting, he crossed over to a window and stood outside of it, looking out onto the streets.

He had been so bally _close_. After weeks of frustration over this newest menace, with all of his ideas running face-first into dead ends, he had finally left the flat in a fit of pique, painted as big a sign on himself as he possibly could that said 'free gentleman, come and get it', and it had actually _worked_.

Of course, because he had been trying to make himself as appetizing as possible for this still-unknown miscreant, he had been woefully unprepared.

The Good Samaritan, Mister Robert Johnson of East Dulwich, while a boon to any common gentleman of means, had added insult to injury by not only handily chasing off Bertie's would-be attacker, but also summoning an ambulance for him when Bertie had collapsed against the side of the building he had just slammed into.

The only thing he had to show for it was a battered playing card, the Jack of Diamonds, currently residing in his pocket. He'd had a dickens of a time retrieving it before his savior noticed, but this time, his would-be attacker hadn't had time to hide it very well.

A drink, served on a silver tray, came into view on Bertie's right. "Your drink, sir."

Bertie turned from the window, from the reflection of himself in it, and accepted it with a slight smile. "Thank you, Jeeves." A sip restored the pipes to full working order, and a healthier swallow began its work restoring the tissues.

Jeeves nodded. "One endeavors to give satisfaction, sir."

Bertie set the drink down on a table nearby, turning to face his man head-on. "So, this evening."

It wasn't anything perceptible to the naked e., but Jeeves straightened up a bit. "Sir?"

Blue eyes stared into his, clear and bright like those heroines in those soupy romance novels that Bingo's wife, the former Rosie M. Banks, writes on occasion. It didn't help that those eyes had starred in a number of dreams where they had confessed their feelings to each other and were engaged in acts that would get them both sentenced to lengthy prison sentences if any of their personal circles were to find out.

"I want to lie."

That was not Bertie had wanted to say.

"That's not what I wanted to say."

Jeeves's eyebrows rose a significant eighth of an inch. "Indeed, sir?"

"I mean to say--" Bertie stopped himself before he could say something else idiotic. He still managed it anyway. "Jeeves, say, for instance, that a man has a--a hobby."

Jeeves watched him, and even though his dial hadn't moved an eighth of an inch in any direction, Bertie could still feel a general air of wariness. "A hobby, sir?"

Bertie winced and sighed, taking a long drag from his gasper. "That makes it sound positively flighty, doesn't it? No, it's not that."

"Perhaps, sir, if you are having difficulty describing the situation, you might describe how it began?"

Bertie sighed. "You're absolutely right, Jeeves." Then he frowned. "Of course, this Wooster runs into the problem of how much explanatory details to bung into the proceedings. Too few, and my audience--" He indicated Jeeves with a wave of the hand still holding the gasper that he thought rather graceful. "--is confused and abuzz with questions. Too many, and the details shall positively swim together in a soup of another kind."

Jeeves considered this for a moment. "If such is the case, sir, then perhaps my inquiring directly might resolve matters."

Bertie smiled gratefully. "Ask away, old thing."

"Am I correct in surmising that the events of this evening relate to the articles of clothing you keep hidden in the footlocker inside your bedroom closet, sir?"

Bertie froze.

The a.s of c. in question were a shirt, waistcoat, trousers, and jacket, all made of sturdy black leather, topped off with a mask that covered most of Bertie's face. They had served him well since he had started this wheeze some seven years ago.

And over the past three, they had undergone some slight alterations here and there -- mends that Bertie didn't remember doing himself, the leather being treated with some sort of substance that had waterproofed it better than Bertie's own efforts had managed, the string that held the mask in place being replaced by a stronger band that made it fit quite snugly.

Jeeves nodded once, as though Bertie had spoken volumes in the silence that had gasped between them.

Bertie had known, somewhere in the back of his mind when he had pulled on the suit on previous nights that it had all been Jeeves's handiwork, but it had been something understood, but never spoken. The young master got himself into scrapes of his own devising, and Jeeves was there with something a goodish deal larger than a darning needle to make repairs as necessary. To talk about it out in the open was akin to eyeing the elephant in the room and asking if it wanted a chair.

One question, however, weighed on the Wooster mind. "Why didn't you say anything, old thing?"

Jeeves looked startled at the question, if the fractional widening of his eyes was anything to go by. "It was not my place, sir. You returned home with minimal injuries that could be readily explained by a boisterous evening spent drinking, and you were always asleep when I came to wake you for breakfast."

The unspoken 'except for this evening' was jolly well spoken between them.

"I'm sorry about disturbing your evening, old fruit," Bertie started to apologize when the frustration from earlier came roaring back. "But dash it, I was so _close_ this time!"

Jeeves's eyebrows lifted. "Sir?"

"You've read about the rash of attempted murders in the newspaper, the ones where it's always someone well-to-do?"

The light of understanding lit in Jeeves's eyes, positively turning them a shade of sapphire that took Bertie's breath away. "Three gentlemen have been attacked so far, all in different locations. It has been speculated that the only reason there weren't fatalities is because each gentleman has been able to reach assistance in time."

"Precisely, Jeeves. The man's modus oper-whatsit -- opera? No, that's not it. It'll come to me in a moment."

"Operandi, sir?"

Bertie snapped his fingers. "That's the baby. The man's modus operandi is such that he's targeting specific people, and making it so that they seem like isolated incidents. But for the life of me, I can't find the bally link between them."

"Pardon me, sir," Jeeves made an apologetic cough like a sheep on a remote hillside that's about to offer corrections to a younger ram's arithmetic. "but what makes you so sure that the string of attacks are indeed the work of one person?"

Bertie dug into his pocket and removed the Jack of Diamonds from earlier. "This."

Jeeves accepted the battered card. His dial registered a confused frown before he returned to his usual fish-fed brilliance. "It appears to be a playing card, sir."

"It is, Jeeves. But more importantly, this is a calling card of his." Bertie took an impatient drag of his gasper. "At each attack, the attacker shows, targets a gentleman of means who's toddling out alone, manages to get them out of sight of others so the police can't be summoned until the curtain rises, and leaves _this card_ hidden somewhere nearby."

Jeeves narrowed his eyes at the card. "Most disturbing, sir."

"I've tried every angle I can think of, Jeeves, and I'm pipped at the post," Bertie grumbled, counting on his fingers. "The last time we were in America, I heard about a blind chappie who sings a blues song called Jack of Diamonds, but it doesn't talk about anything here in England." 

Bertie touched his middle finger. "Then there's a gangster back in New York by the name of Jack Diamond who works with another gangster there, but he just bootlegs alcohol. Nothing to do whatever with events happening in London." He thought about it for a moment. "Then again, I rather imagine that committing a string of attacks on gentlemen over here could actually hurt business, what?"

"It would certainly have an effect on his profits, I imagine, sir."

"Even so, Jeeves." Bertie nodded. "You know, I even tried consulting a psychic about those bally cards? Barmy once had his fortune read by a cousin of his who had learned how to use playing cards for tarrot readings."

Jeeves flipped the card over to examine the design on the back. "That would be tarot, sir. The second T is silent." 

Bertie frowned, turning to Jeeves. "What? I say, why bother including it if it's not going to be pronounced?"

"I'm given to understand that the word is borrowed from French, sir." Jeeves offered the card back, the twist of his lips revealing his annoyance.

"Oh, well, that's all right then." Bertie returned the card to his pocket. "They have all sorts of letters in words that don't get pronounced all the time."

"Indeed, sir."

"Be that as it may, I tried consulting Barmy's cousin, and he said that when using playing cards to do a reading, the jack of diamonds can mean any number of things. I can't remember them all, but it could either mean a hard-working person, or a change in your line of work. It's all a bally nuisance, and I hadn't made any real progress until this evening."

Jeeves had another of his momentary pauses, his eyes steady on the Wooster form. "Am I correct in assuming that you wanted to be attacked by this person, sir?"

"Yes, dash it," Bertie said with a good deal of vim. "I was so fed up with banging my head against a wall with all this rot that I practically dangled a sign on self that said 'free victim, come and get me'."

"And you did not wear any of your typical accoutrement." It was another question that they both knew the answer to. 

"How the dickens could I? It's not like any of it would fit under my clothes." Bertie waved a dismissive hand at the coat closet where the items were tucked away. Upon discovering that his gasper had gasped its last, he stubbed it out in the ashtray that Jeeves offered. "It's supposed to protect the Wooster corpus from being turned into an actual corpse, if you take my meaning. It's not made to be sight unseen, if that's the phrase I want."

"I see."

Bertie shot him a look, but Jeeves's expression was still the sculpted marvel it ever was, with a strong chin, his crooked nose that he likely broke in boyhood, and clear blue eyes. He was the very model of a modern major valet. (All right, so the word didn't work for the rhythm, but when one is faced with trying times, one must make do.)

And the doing at the moment was that while the Jeevesian map wasn't letting any secrets slip, there was a distinct soupiness about the man that even Bertie could recognize.

"What is it, Jeeves?"

Jeeves drew himself up a few millimeters in defensive whatsit. "Sir?"

Bertie checked a groan with some difficulty. "Come, now, out with it. You have some criticism for this Wooster. Very well, bung it before the young master, and don't spare the tabasco." When it looked like the valet would kick, he added, "You won't be easy until you've said your piece."

"Very good, sir," Jeeves said with a slow nod. "Since you have not intimated that you have an accomplice in your nocturnal endeavors, I feel it was an ill-advised risk to offer yourself as bait to an individual who has caused grievous injury to members of the gentry."

"It was, but you can't argue with the results," Bertie couldn't help smiling a little. "I've been following this blister on the backside of humanity for a month and a half now, Jeeves, and it was only tonight that I finally saw his bally face. If it hadn't been for that Mister Robert Johnson of East Dulwich, I might have succeeded in finally capturing him."

Jeeves's dial turned positively stone-like. "It is equally likely, given the state of your clothes and appearance, that you could have fared worse, sir."

Bertie stopped for a moment, and looked at Jeeves more closely.

To the untrained e., a man like Jeeves is a statuesque marvel, his wonders to behold. Not a single expression passed his face except for slight twinges here and there that betray his state of mind. To one Bertram Wooster, however, he was an open book. At least, he was when he allowed the guard to slip around the young master. 

The slips that had been occurring during the conversation thus far hadn't been moments of allowing himself the freedom to smile where no one but a trusted friend could see, but rather, bursts of such intense emotion that he could not contain them.

And it was obvious that he was holding in a goodish deal of the tabasco regarding how much of a fathead Bertram was acting at the moment.

What Jeeves did not know, however, was Bertram's own state of mind.

"If I had danced the Charleston off this mortal coil with the blighter in question," he said, "I think it would be better than if he had managed to bash in some other chap's brains who hadn't clue one what he was in for."

Jeeves's jaw tightened, which was the same as if the top of his head had shot off like a bally volcano. "Your personal code is commendable, sir, but I would advise being more cautious in future."

Still waters run deep, but for Jeeves, they were positively fathomless. Unfathomable? It was one of those words.

At some point, they had moved closer to each other, with Bertram able to see the look in Jeeves's eyes from a distance closer than he was used to. So when he spoke, taking the map from noble brow to strong chin, he murmured instead.

"I will take your counsel under advisement."

Jeeves didn't miss where Bertram's attention had wandered to. "Very good, sir." Impossibly, he leaned in closer. It was only an eighth of an inch at most, but it felt like the man had crossed oceans. "When you make your next attempt, I shall be with you."

When the words had sunk into the Wooster grey matter (what little of it there was), Bertie felt as though he'd been splashed in the face with cold water. Flinching back, he said, "I say, what?" 

Jeeves straightened, returning to his monolithic existence. "The only success you have had thus far was in using yourself as bait, with no one to assist you." 

"You'd help me with this wheeze?" Bertie managed, feeling his head was spinning.

"I believe the saying is if you cannot beat them, it is best to join them, sir," Jeeves said firmly. "I will not allow you to come to harm if it is within my power to prevent it." 

Bertie narrowed his eyes. "What about that time when Stiffy had Stinker Pinker coming after me with a cricket bat?"

"If you'll recall, sir, that stratagem was one of Miss Byng's devising, and not one I would have suggested for the retrieval of Mr. Travers's cow creamer."

"Ah, that's right," Bertie said, remembering the incident in full. "Which really goes to show what a bally nuisance girls are when they're after something, what?"

"Indeed, sir." He raised an eyebrow at Wooster, showing that he knew full well what Bertram was doing in trying to divert the conversation away from the topic of the attacker who'd been preying on the gentlemen of London.

"Do you have a plan already cooked up in that brain of yours?" Bertie asked, getting excited despite himself. Jeeves's plans for solving such matters as the making and breaking of engagements as well as petty larceny had been corkers whenever they'd been placed before the young master. Having that fish-fed brilliance turned to the matter of a man who felt the need to divest the happy cabbage from those who'd rightfully inherited it was bound to be a showstopper.

"Not yet, sir," Jeeves said, "but I will turn my full attention to it. May I suggest that you retire for the evening, sir?" 

Bertie grimaced. "Not unless you promise not to bung well-meaning friends and aunts before this Wooster before the crack of noon, at the very earliest. It's--" He glanced at a clock and nearly jumped a mile. "It's nearly three in the morning! Good Lord! Better make that three p.m., Jeeves."

"Very good, sir."

With that, Bertram went through his nightly ritual (at least the one he partook of when he wasn't tight as an owl), and was safely tucked under the covers. In moments, he was carried off in the arms of Morpheus. 

***

On a lonely street somewhere in London, well after eleven o'clock, there was a man heading home by himself. It had been a cool, brisk evening, so he'd decided to walk and enjoy the night air. Dapper in a grey three-piece suit, he cut a fine figure as he walked down the street, idly swinging his walking stick to and fro and adjusting the fedora perched on his head.

**_"I couldn't spot him," Mister Wooster had said earlier that evening, plucking at Jeeves's pocket square and fanning it a bit. "But I know he'd been tailing me for a goodish while before he made his move."_**

The idle gentleman, taking in the sights, had no idea that he was being followed.

Jeeves, meanwhile, felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to rise. He made a conscious effort to keeping his breathing slow and even. His heightened awareness of the danger he was in was important. It meant that his would-be attacker had taken the bait.

**_"He's relying on the fact that you're alone and defenseless, even with the walking stick." Mister Wooster adjusted his tie, loosening it a precise three millimeters. "I'm sure you don't need me to tell you, but he's going to melt out of the shadows like a bally ghost."_**

Jeeves eyed the winding street ahead of him, keeping up the appearance of nonchalance. Ahead, he could pick out three alleys that looked promising.

 ** _"He's also going to assume you'll hit like a pack of elephants, not be quick enough to get out of the way. He might even think that a man of your size will be overconfident." Blue eyes glanced down to take in the whole of him, and jerked themselves back up to meet Jeeves's gaze apologetically. "I'm sure you'll make him regret that, what?"_**

Knowing how his foe might strike was important, but even more so was having complete control of the battlefield.

Spying some refuse spilling out onto the street, Jeeves turned into the closest alley and braced himself.

 ** _"Do you remember how I described him to that constable back at Saint Bart's?" Mister Wooster held up a hand approximating shoulder-height for the two of them. "About here-ish? Mop of brown hair, the bit through the eyebrow?"_**

"Excuse me?"

Jeeves turned around, seeing a dark silhouette with short-cropped hair. "Yes?" he called back.

"I know this is a bit unusual, but could you help me? I seem to be a bit lost…" The man moved forward. A beam of moonlight shining on the roof of a nearby building landed on the man's face, revealing skin that was pale to an unhealthy extreme.

"Lost?" Jeeves offered, trying his best to look bewildered. His gaze caught on the man's left eyebrow, which was bisected by a scar that appeared to be a bare patch of skin.

The man's dark eyes narrowed.

 **_"And he threw a devil of a right hook to open up the proceedings."_**

Before Jeeves could blink, a fist lashed out. He threw up a hand to try to catch it, but the glancing blow sent a shock through his arm. Gritting his teeth, he tightened his grip on the walking stick Mister Wooster had lent him, and as those who understand baseball parlance would say, 'swung for the fences'.

The man, surprised by the sudden offensive, only had enough time to twist and take the blow on his back instead of his side.

 **_"He looks brawny, but he pads his clothes. I managed a lucky shot or two, but they weren't as solid as they should have been."_**

The man gritted his teeth, a stark yellow in the stray moonlight that illuminated the alleyway, and tried to make a grab for the walking stick. Jeeves managed to yank back in time, thrusting forward to try to jab it into the man's face.

**_"Not only that, but he gets out of the way sharpish, Jeeves. I had a devil of a time keeping all of innards where they belong."_ **

In one beam of moonlight, there was the unmistakable flash of a knife blade.

Intellectually, Jeeves knew that the blade wouldn't make a sound in the air, but he could almost imagine it whistling by as he took the walking stick in both hands and tried to anticipate where the knife would aim and block it.

 **_"The best plan we have is for me to hold him off until you can get into position, sir," Jeeves had said. "With your intelligence, I should be able to keep myself alive until then."_**

The knife flashed once, twice, almost too quickly for Jeeves to track. At the last second, he turned away from a blow. The fabric of his left sleeve ripped, resounding in his ears, and a moment later, he felt the flesh in his forearm tear.

 **_The twist in Mister Wooster's lips said quite clearly how much he disliked the scheme. For once, it wasn't wounded pride, but something else. He kept his gaze fixed on Jeeves's jacket lapel, picking off lint that wasn't present. "I couldn't fend him off last time. What makes you think I can do it now?"_**

Jeeves cried out in pain, switching the walking stick to his other hand and swinging it with as much force as he could muster. He didn't care about hitting the man. His best defense now was distance. The man clearly knew how to use a knife to deadly effect. Remaining in close quarters meant a death sentence.

The man hopped out of the way, his teeth bared. He sucked in a quick breath and jolted forward.

**_Jeeves touched a finger underneath Bertram's chin._ **

**__**

**__**

**_Startled blue eyes, one of them still bruised from the black eye he'd suffered days before, flicked up to meet his gaze._**

Jeeves brought the walking stick up in one last desperate swing, his pulse pounding in his ears.

 **_"There have been documented cases of men who, due to a surge of adrenaline, have been able to accomplish superhuman feats to protect his loved ones."_**

Out of the darkness, a second walking stick lashed out, smashing into the back of the man's head.

Brown eyes that had been filled with malice rolled back into the man's head as he slumped to the ground, unconscious.

A masked man with wide blue eyes melted out of the shadows. "Jeeves?"

Jeeves breathed in deeply, squeezing his eyes shut as he gingerly cradled his injured arm to his chest, trying to apply pressure to the wound. "A minor graze across my arm, but otherwise unharmed, sir."

"Minor, my foot!" Bertram moved in, lifting a gloved hand to the torn sleeve of Jeeves's jacket. The leather came close to where the blood was welling up, staining Jeeves's jacket and shirt a bright red. "We have to get you taken care of."

"Sir, the attacker--"

Bertram turned to the attacker, and reached to his belt to uncoil a length of rope. Tying it tightly around the man's arms and legs, Jeeves could see that Bertram's treatment was rougher than it perhaps should have been, but at that moment, he didn't care.

When Bertram stood up and turned to face him again, he could see his ensemble more clearly.

It had been one thing to see the leather armor neatly tucked away under old mementos which had undoubtedly belonged to Bertram's parents. But to see the armor in use, with Bertram standing in an alleyway with moonlight playing across his features, highlighting his willowy frame, was another thing entirely. The hood, coupled with the mask, hid the majority of Bertram's more recognizable features from view, revealing only eyes lined with kohl and a ready smile that only needed a lit cigarette and a glass of brandy to complete the picture of a gentleman at ease.

"Can you hoof it back to the two-seater? I just have to drop this blister off at the nearest police station and let nature take its course."

Jeeves frowned, fending off a slight dizziness. "Sir?"

"It's no good saying 'sir', Jeeves, especially with me looking like this." He motioned to the leather armor he was wearing. "We can't just leave him here. He'll just escape to attack some other gentleman."

There was something not quite right with the statement. The blood loss was making it difficult to construct a proper argument. "They won't know to arrest him. I need to give a statement."

"Ah, but how can you if I'm dressed like this, what? I didn't pack a spare set of clothes in the two-seater, and you don't look so steady on your feet." He had a victorious look in his eye.

Jeeves adjusted his arm with a wince. "I took the liberty of packing a suit for you, sir. It's in the trunk."

Bertram paused for a moment, and then sighed heavily at being so expertly outmaneuvered. "Aren't the police going to get a little suspicious that not three days after the young master is attacked, my valet is also targeted as well?"

Jeeves started to shake his head before it started pounding with more vigor. "I will… think of something."

***

"Well, that was an adventure, what?" Bertie announced as he entered the flat, tossing the bag he'd been carrying onto the nearest chair before turning on his valet.

Jeeves closed the door behind him carefully. "Indeed, sir."

"I mean to say, it's not every day that you thwart some cove's plan to forcibly shuffle members of the upper classes from this mortal coil."

"Indeed so, sir." Jeeves reached out to take Bertram's coat, but the young master held up a hand to stop him.

"No, no, Jeeves, you're not to move that arm," he said, wrestling out of his overcoat himself and hanging it up himself. "I can pick up and carry with the best of them until your arm has one less hole in it."

There was a brief wince across the Jeevesian map before he nodded. "Yes, sir."

Bertie shot him one of the fruitiest looks to show his displeasure at the remark. "A little less of the disapproving 'yes, sir', Jeeves, if you don't mind. You were injured assisting the young master, after all." A thought occurred to him. "I say, you're not still in pain, are you?"

"No, sir. The medication I was given at the hospital has made any discomfort tolerable."

"No funny twinges and whatnot?" Bertie bit his lip.

"No, sir." The corner of his lip lifted an exact eighth of an inch.

"Anything this Wooster might be able to do for you in the meantime? The sky's the limit, of course, though I can't guarantee how well I can manage a hard-boiled egg."

The light in Jeeves's eyes was distinctly fond. "While it is kind of you to offer, sir, rest and time are the best healers."

"At least for another ten days, and then the stitches come out." At the mild surprise that splashed across his man's dial, Bertie hastened to reassure him. "It shouldn't be that difficult to dig the little chaps out. I've done it a time or two myself when it was an area I could easily reach. Just a few snips, a few tugs, and boomps-a-daisy, what?"

Jeeves nodded slowly. "Indeed, sir."

Bertie nodded firmly in return, following Jeeves's eyeline to the bag on the chair that contained the soup and fish he wore specifically for feats of derring-do. "Leave it, Jeeves. I know the urge to settle things to rights is strong with you, but I have seen to my own accoutrements before. I shall see to it again."

Bertie picked up the bag and started removing bits and bobs of his leather armor before he realized that Jeeves hadn't replied in any way, positive or no. He looked over his shoulder as he said, "I really can handle this, Jeeves."

Jeeves was watching him steadily, eyeing the articles with a look that was dashed difficult for B. W. Wooster to decipher -- if that was the word he wanted.

"Jeeves?" Bertie wielded the man's name like a stick one might use to prod a sleepy sort of animal to wakefulness. Or at least enough awareness to continue the conversation wheeze.

Dark blue eyes lifted to meet his. "Begging your pardon, sir, but am I correct in assuming that the next time that you find yourself in a similar situation -- of a menace on the loose threatening the populace at large, and the police proving ineffective in capturing them -- that you will similarly work alone in order to apprehend the villain?"

Bertie blinked. "I don't see why not?"

Jeeves's expression became less of the stuffed frog and more like a marble statue. "And when events become this hazardous again, you will not request assistance?"

Bertie blinked again. "Jeeves, who exactly am I going to ask to assist me? It isn't like I have anyone to confide in who would _believe_ me. And before you offer yourself as Exhibit A, this is not the kind of thing I can ask my gentleman's personal gentleman to risk life and limb for. A bit of cow creamer theft? Fine. A few white lies to the police concerning relatively minor charges? Not a problem. But this?" Bertie shook the melon. "I couldn't in good conscience ask you to do that."

Jeeves drew himself up. "And if I insisted on being informed of your nocturnal endeavors?"

Bertie could guess where this conversation was going, sharpish. "So that you can pretend to be supportive and then stop this Wooster in his tracks with one of your best schemes, Jeeves?"

Somehow, the look in Jeeves's eye turned positively glacial. It might have been a trick of the light, but there might have been a flash of hurt on his dial as well. "I would not presume to take such a liberty, sir."

Bertie bristled rather like an angry cat. "I have a boatload of aunts who patronize me, try to mold me, and try to sell me off to whichever 'acceptable' beazel is available because she's just gotten cheesed off at her fiance. And it's all been 'for my own good', Jeeves. You've done it since the beginning, but when _you_ interfere, it's because you want me to be happy."

Jeeves considered him for a long moment before nodding once with a tight jaw. "It is as you say, sir."

Bertie nodded back. "Good. Yes. Well. I just-- this is the one part of my life that I don't want you to make decisions for me. I've done a bit of good so far. Even saved a few people who might have gone the way of all flesh if this Wooster hadn't been on hand to fish them out of the soup." He kept the stiff upper lip as best he could. "So...please? Let me work in peace?"

"If you'll pardon me, sir, the reason for my request was not to stymie your efforts, but to keep abreast of your whereabouts," Jeeves offered. "For example, if you require a second pair of eyes, a research assistant, or someone to act as backup for a particularly tricky endeavor."

Bertie opened his mouth to remind his manservant that such was not included in his job description, though he was two moments away from letting slip that the thought of Jeeves risking his life for him sent his heart into palpi-whatsits.

"If you are concerned about my health and well-being, I am similarly concerned for yours."

That, coupled with the intense look in Jeeves's eyes, made Wooster close his mouth without breathing a word.

Jeeves nodded, as though Bertie had managed a whole paragraph of dialogue. "Thank you, sir." There was a minute shift of his shoulders, revealing just how tired the man truly was after his ordeal this evening. There was an overall twinge to the man's face, and a soft exhale.

Bertie refrained from reaching out to him by the skin of his teeth. "I've kept you up, old thing. I can take care of myself this evening. Go toddle off for forty of the best, what?"

It was an indication of how much discomfort Jeeves was in that he nodded once. "Very good, sir. Good night."

Bertie watched him head for the kitchen door, tension in the quiver of his frame. Before he knew it, the words slipped out. "I say, before you drop off, could you answer a question for me?"

Jeeves turned, his eyebrows lifted momentarily in genuine surprise. "Sir?"

"When you spoke earlier of love and whatsit, did you--" Bertie screwed his courage to the sticking p. "Did you mean it?"

Jeeves favored him with a long look.

"That you might feel something close to the…tender..."

Bertie's voice trailed off as Jeeves moved closer to him.

"I mean to say, I know that you've done some dashed brainy things in order to get a scheme off without a hitch," Bertie murmured, rooted to the spot. He wasn't sure if he was blinking as Jeeves reached up to brush a lock of hair from the young master's brow. "And you're quite perspect-- no, that's not it. Perspica-- oh, no, definitely not. It starts with a P, and it means that you notice things mortal man tends to miss."

"I believe the word you're groping for is 'perceptive'?" Jeeves murmured in return, tracing a steady finger along his cheekbone.

"Yes, that's it," Bertie whispered, looking first at Jeeves's lips, and then looking back into the man's dark blue eyes. "Don't keep this Wooster in suspense, Jeeves." He licked his lips nervously. "Please."

"I will do a great many things, sir," Jeeves murmured. "But I will not toy with your feelings."

He leaned in, slow and careful, and kissed Bertie.

It wasn't the kind of corker one reads about in romance novels (at least according to fillies who rave about the bally things). Neither was it the dry press of lips to skin that an aged relative or friendly cousin might favor one with by way of greeting or to show appreciation of a pleasant surprise orchestrated by the receiver of said kiss.

It was a slow sort of hello by two interested parties who were but mortal men. There was definite interest there, but fatigue and the desire for soft, comforting sheets outweighed the desire to disrobe and explore and investigate.

As their lips parted, and Bertie looked into dark blue eyes, he could see that Jeeves was feeling similarly.

"The spirit is willing, but the flesh is letting down the side, I'm afraid," Bertie whispered.

The fractional twinge of Jeeves's lips was more noticeable at this distance, along with the lovelight in the man's eyes. "Then here shall we say good night, sir."

Bertie sighed. "We'll talk tomorrow, what? With no pretending that this never happened?"

"Of course, sir." Jeeves murmured, leaning in for one last kiss. "Good night, sir."

Bertie smiled. "Good night, Jeeves."


End file.
